


if we are sinners

by LeaOotori



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 10 + 1 format, 10 Things, Angst, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Dreams, Drunken Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Inspired by "Sinners" by Lauren Aquiliana, Inspired by Music, M/M, Merlin being a lowkey housewife, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Sappy, Slow Burn, bearding? i guess?, but instead of it being crack like usual it's emo, technically, they're so in love that my heart hurts writing this, this is just arthur and merlin saying no homo to eachother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeaOotori/pseuds/LeaOotori
Summary: Merlin eyes water as they meet Arthur’s. Blue clashing with blue, unspoken truths passing between them. Even as they gravitate towards each other, they stay a foot apart, as if afraid of being seen even when they’re completely alone.They never acknowledge these moments, even when they feel so real and all encompassing. They both pretend they’re just passing fancies, moments of brotherhood, when they know it’s much more than that. Brotherhood doesn’t(shouldn’t)have lingering touches and glances, bitten lips and watery wanting eyes, or wet dreams in the middle of the night.This isn’t brotherhood, and both of them are well aware.Tooaware.ORTen times Merlin and Arthur (unsuccessfully) hid their feelings from each other and the one time they didn't.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 128





	1. i./ii./iii.— little things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys :) the idea for this fic has been haunting me since march, but I didn't get to actually writing it until early june, and then i got sidetracked with other projects, and long story short, i'm here now ahaha 
> 
> in all honesty, I wasn't sure if I wanted to post this-- I wasn't sure if anyone really would want to read this, especially since it's a little angsty at times and who needs that when the world is like on fire?? but i decided that quarantine = bored merthur shippers, so why not add to the content pool? :) 
> 
> anyways, this fic is told in 11 individual "moments" btwn arthur and merlin, and this chapter has 3 of them, if that makes any sense. i tried writing this in present tense because i felt like it fit the mood better, please point out if i messed up the tenses anywhere (i usually write in past) or anything sounds weird ahah.
> 
> that all being said, plz enjoy! i'll see you at the bottom :) the song this fic is inspired by is "sinners" by lauren aquiliana, linked here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iKELODZin0M

* * *

**| i.** dream (nightmare) **|**

* * *

Arthur and Merlin have always shared moments that they shouldn’t have. 

Sometimes, in the dead of the night, Merlin stares up at the ceiling of his tiny chambers on his cramped little bed and imagines himself touching the heavens in an endless clearing under an endless sky next to a man larger than life. He can almost feel the warmth of Arthur beside him, the memory of warm, dewy grass on a summer night and stars coming into dazzling focus overhead: vivid and almost real. 

He remembers the things they had said to each other, things that were seemingly innocuous, but still shouldn’t have been put into words and said out loud. 

_ “You’re the person I trust most, Merlin.”  _

_ “There’s nobody I would rather serve my whole life, Arthur.”  _

The words had sounded like vows, and Merlin treats them as just that, holding them close to his heart as he drifts off to sleep, trying to reach out and touch Arthur again, even if it’s just in his dreams. 

By the time Camelot is bathed in the dawn sunshine, Merlin is already up and about again, pretending that he never thought of  _ that night _ , even if it’s the most comforting memory he has. Even if it never fails to help him fall asleep. Even if it’s one of the only things that keeps him going when his world feels like it’s falling apart. He’s not sure why he pretends— it’s not as if lies will change his feelings or the ache buried in his heart. 

But perhaps it makes it a little easier to bear it, if he pretends nothing ever happened. 

In fact, neither Merlin nor Arthur have acknowledged that that night had ever happened. Sometimes, Merlin even wonders if he just made it up in the strange corners of his mind. 

If not for the times when Merlin catches Arthur smiling at the sky on hunting trips or biting back the same words he had let slip that day, he would’ve convinced himself that the stress of his life had gotten to him, and that he had finally lost it. 

_ But it had happened _ . Merlin was sure of it. 

It was just best forgotten. 

He tells himself that, over and over.  _ It’s best forgotten. It’s best forgotten. It’s best forgotten.  _ But the more he tries to forget, the more he remembers, until all his dreams are haunted by Arthur, looking radiant and happy, lying in a field and looking like a forest sprite of myth, saying his name over and over again.

_ Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.  _

His hair glitters like spun gold, he smiles, he turns his head, he looks at Merlin— he looks  _ through  _ Merlin with those endless eyes of his, and Merlin can feel the breath leave his lungs like the wind was knocked out of him. 

_ Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.  _

Swallowing, Merlin reaches for him, but like every other time, his pale fingers pass right through Arthur’s armor. Merlin scrambles to touch him, to hold him, only to feel him slipping through his hands again and again until he’s gone altogether, a summer’s ghost, leaving Merlin alone in the dark of the forest. 

Merlin awakes, heart in his throat, sweat covering his skin and blanket wrapped around his legs and trapping him, caging him. 

He hates it when the dream ends like this— like a  _ nightmare.  _ Shivering, he sinks his fingernails into his arms, curling up and trying to breathe as Arthur’s voice echoes through his mind. 

_ Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.  _

* * *

**| ii.** intoxicat(ing)(ed) **|**

* * *

“Shh,” Merlin laughs, trying to be quiet as he pokes his head around a corner. “You’re being too loud!” 

“Well,  _ Mer _ lin,” Arthur says, getting progressively louder as his words continue to slur together. “It’s  _ my  _ castle, I can be as loud as I want!” 

Merlin slaps a hand over the king’s mouth, a smile splitting his own face. “And we don’t want  _ your  _ people to tell tales of their drunken idiot of a king!”

“Treason,” Arthur mumbles, barely audible under his servant’s hand, but there’s hardly any heart in it— his _highness_ seems more occupied with trying to stay upright. “Beheaded— stocks, maybe even banished—” 

“Arthur, be  _ quiet!”  _ Merlin grabs the blonde as he nearly topples over, glad they don’t have an audience. If anyone saw this, it wouldn’t take long for the bards to write songs and stories that would last ages about how the king couldn’t hold his drink. Pushing Arthur up against the wall for support, Merlin looks across the hall, hearing the distant clinking noises of chainmail as the guards start changing positions. He had snuck around enough that he knew all the guards’ shifts, and thus, all the perfect gaps to slip through.

_ It’s a good thing I don’t want to kill Arthur,  _ he thinks as he gesticulates for the king to follow him.  _ I know far too much.  _ They dart across the hall, holding in drunken laughs with cheshire grins and sparkling eyes, as if everything in the world is simple and nothing hurts at all. 

Merlin grabs Arthur by the arm and pulls him into an alcove barely five seconds before a guard turns the corner and walks straight past, making the two men hold their breaths in the crowded little space. 

“It’s so hot,” Arthur whispers, still much too loud, but Merlin can’t find it in himself to reprimand him again, no matter what’s at stake. Not when his cheeks are flushed like that, anyways. The king wrinkles his nose childishly. “Stop staring at me. Do I have something on my face?”

“I’m not staring,” Merlin argues back, still smiling like an idiot. “You’re so narcess— narcisis— narcissesestic.” 

Despite the brunet’s drunken butchering of the word, the insult seems to translate fairly well. “Shut up,  _ Mer _ lin.” 

Rolling his eyes, Merlin peaks his head out of the alcove. The guard assigned to the hall they’re currently hiding in would make a round down to the rooms at the very end in a few minutes, giving a long enough gap for them to successfully sneak past him to Arthur’s chambers. 

But until then, he’s stuck here with the drunk King. 

Normally, Merlin would panic, or distract himself from the situation at hand by investing his time in making sassy remarks that would each put him closer and closer to spending a day in the stocks. But hell, Arthur wasn’t the only one that was drunk.

“Just give it a couple minutes,” Merlin whispers, ducking back into the alcove and nearly smashing his head straight into Arthur’s. He jolts back at the last moment, heart thundering in his chest. There’s soft yellow light floating in between the shadows from the torches in the hall, making Arthur look like the sun itself. 

“I said stop staring,” the king says indignantly, sounding far too much like a boy. 

“You’re so sparkly,” comes Merlin’s eloquent response. 

“Are you sure you aren’t drunker than I am?” Arthur asks, voicing a mortified Merlin’s thoughts out loud. 

“You’re the lightweight, not me,” the brunet insists, pursing his lips. 

Arthur huffs. “Apparently not.”

They’re silent for a long moment, hearing nothing but the distant clinking of armor as the guard in the hall begins to move. 

Merlin, however, isn’t paying attention like he should. There’s a floppy lock of Arthur’s hair fallen over his eyes, ruining the illusion of perfection but adding a layer of humanity to him that makes Merlin want to reach out and touch him. All self control seems to leave him in that moment, so he does. 

He reaches out, fingers strangely steady, brushing the lock of hair aside. 

Somehow, even though Merlin is the one who combs Arthur’s hair everyday, this feels infinitely more intimate.  _ Infinitely more taboo.  _

Arthur inhales sharply, but makes no move to stop him. Merlin isn’t sure which of the two of them seems more like a startled deer at that moment, ready to spook and run at the first sudden movement. 

Then Merlin lets himself breathe and it feels like the first breath after being underwater. His consciousness floods back to him, and the shame and fear and self-hatred and years of insecurity rise in his chest and he snatches his hand away, clenching his jaw. “Let’s go,” he says, turning away and refusing to look at Arthur’s face. 

The guard has made his way down the hall, just like Merlin knew he would, so he and Arthur make their way to the royal chambers without a single word passing between them the whole way. 

After they finally make it inside, Arthur sags against the pillar of his bed, a heavy breath leaving him. He says something, something that Merlin can’t remember for the life of him, even just a few minutes later. 

As soon as he’s dismissed, Merlin scurries back to the physician’s chambers, hands stuffed in his pockets, daydreaming against his will— daydreaming of a world where he tucked that hair away from Arthur’s face and smiled fondly at him, unafraid. 

It goes unsaid that this moment will join the legions of those forever unmentioned and unacknowledged. 

* * *

**| iii.** warm **|**

* * *

Winters in Camelot can be cruel sometimes, even for someone like Merlin who had spent many a harrowing winter in a small, starving village like Ealdor. Something about the citadel’s stone walls and towering structures adds to the chill that weasels its way deep inside Merlin’s bones every year without fail.  There’s a brisk wind outside, warning everyone of a snow preparing to fall. Amidst the flurry of pressing errands Merlin has to run that particular morning, he pays the cold little mind. It has become a constant companion, like Merlin’s guilt and fear and shame. 

“You have a council meeting after training, don’t forget,” Merlin muses absentmindedly, fishing a freshly polished pair of boots out of the King’s armoire. 

“You’ve said it three times,” Arthur says, tone bordering a groan. 

Merlin looks at him, unimpressed. “Well, you’ve forgotten it three times.” 

The blonde mutters something under his breath, but before Merlin can catch it and reply with something sufficiently snarky, his breath catches and he sneezes. 

“Bless you.”

Merlin sneezes again. 

“ _ Bless  _ you.” This time, the response is begrudging as Arthur pulls his warmest tunic over his head. 

Of course, the best (and worst) things come in threes, so Merlin sneezes again. 

“For the gods' sake,  _ bless  _ you,” Arthur says, sounding exasperated, as if saying the words were physically sapping his energy. “You better not give me something contagious, Merlin.” 

Thankfully, Gaius reports that it just turned out to be a little chill that Merlin caught on account of long days collecting herbs in the freezing woods and mucking out horses in the snow, and therefore, nothing contagious or deadly. “He will be better if he gets a little bit of sleep, sire,” the physician says matter-of-factly to the king’s worried gaze. 

Arthur laughs awkwardly, as if he wasn’t the one who had forced Gaius to do an examination and report straight to the king. He acts like doesn’t care in the least all of a sudden, waving away the diagnosis as if it had gone through one ear and come out the other, but Merlin knows it didn't. 

Rather, he  _ realizes  _ that it didn’t when he finds a cloak with a Pendragon seal wrapped up in a little bundle sitting on his bed when he gets back to Gaius’s chambers one evening barely a few days later. Despite all the voices in his mind screaming at him not to touch it, he traces his fingers across the tweed tied around the cloth and wonders idly if Arthur knotted it himself. 

The next day, Merlin storms into Arthur’s chambers, red faced and holding the cloak away from his body, as if afraid to touch it. “Arthur, I can’t accept this.” 

“Accept what?” Arthur asks, playing dumb. “Oh,  _ that _ ,” he laughs, the fake condescension doing no favors as Merlin knew him far too well. “It’s an old one of mine, I need to get rid of it, and seems like yours is barely holding itself together.” 

Merlin tries to argue, but it’s fruitless, so he ends up returning to his bed that night, still in possession of both the cloak and with a new branch on an old tree of affection blooming in his heart. Hours after he’s eaten and said goodnight to Gaius, Merlin sits up and reaches for the cloak still neatly tied with the tweed at the foot of the bed, tracing the soft fabric with tentative fingers. 

He lights a candle and watches it flicker and reflect off of the fabric as it falls free from its bindings, the tweed dropping to a pile on the floor. The cloth unfurls, the leathery folds whispering against the covers of Merlin’s bed as it does so. Smiling to himself, the brunet traces the hem of the cloak. Just as he had suspected, there wasn’t the slightest sign of wear anywhere on it. It’s far too narrow to fit Arthur’s shoulders, but the Pendragon emblem on the shoulder glitters like gold, even in the dim light. He traces the dragon slowly, imagining the gold threads of the embroidery were the golden strands of Arthur’s hair instead. 

It's the nicest thing Merlin’s ever owned. 

He brings it to his chest carefully, afraid to even wrinkle it. It’s as he does this that he sees something of another color winking through the folds of the cloak. Intrigued, he pulls the sides of it apart to find a tunic bundled under the collar, one exactly like the red and blue ones that Merlin wore every day. 

Except that it is a vivid, royal purple. 

He can almost feel Arthur’s gaze pinned to him the first time he wears the cloak. With his blood thrumming in his veins, Merlin takes it off so that the blonde can see the purple tunic properly as well.  _ Just so he can tell I'm wearing them,  _ Merlin tells himself, _Just so he knows I'm grateful._ He knows that it’s nothing but an excuse, but he just inexplicably likes the weight of Arthur’s attention. 

In fact, he’s so addicted to it that he wears that purple tunic and Pendragon cloak through winter and spring. The cloak retreats to a hook on the wall of his room for the summer, but at the slightest possibility of a chill, Merlin takes the opportunity to wear it. He wears the cloak and tunic for years until they have patches and stitches all over them. He wears them until they fray and fall apart in his fingers, nothing more than threadbare strings.  When, despite all his efforts, they become unusable, Merlin begrudgingly stops wearing them. 

Not too long afterwards, another neatly wrapped bundle shows up silently to his chambers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did you guys think? plz leave comments yall i'm trying something like this for the first time and i desperately need yalls opinions and constructive criticism!!! 
> 
> the second chapter is finished but needs some heavy editing before i roll it out... i would expect it to be up in a week or so, possibly earlier, not sure yet. the tags and direction of the fic are all subject to change lol depending on what yall think
> 
> anyways, PLEASE leave a comment if you can, kudos and follows are appreciated as always :) see you around for chapter two!


	2. iv./v./vi.— mon cherie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pining continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi qts :) this chapter is still relatively lighthearted, the next one gets a bit heavier, so enjoy it while u can lol :) see u at the bottom!

* * *

**| iv.** sweet **|**

* * *

“This is why I keep you around,” Arthur mumbles under his breath when he discovers another slice of his favorite apple pie tucked away on the table next to his bed. 

Merlin stifles a laugh. “It’s a good way to get out of hearing you complaining all the time,” he mumbles, preparing to duck if something should come hurtling his way. Thankfully, the king is too absorbed in his surprise dessert to be angry. 

It had undoubtedly been a long day for Arthur, and in advance of such situations, Merlin is always prepared to sneak into the kitchens and steal extra servings of the blonde’s favorite foods to cheer him up. Surprisingly, the trick does wonders— especially when Merlin judges Arthur’s strange mood swings correctly and brings him exactly what he has been secretly craving. 

_ “This is the only thing you’re good at,”  _ Arthur says often. It's as close to a compliment as Merlin gets on a usual basis, so it is much welcomed. 

“Are you done stuffing your face yet?” Merlin asks as he turns away from lighting the fire, fanning the flames. 

“I  _ am  _ your King, Merlin.” 

“The king who might need another hole in his belt soon,” the servant mumbles, and this time, a boot does come flying across the room at him. Poor Merlin doesn’t move quickly enough and gets hit in the arm, leaving him pouting angrily and rubbing it. “That was an overreaction,” he complains, getting up and making his way over to Arthur.  The pie is a distant memory at this point, the only remaining traces being a few stray smatterings of sugar on the plate and fork now laying abandoned on the bedside table. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Arthur says, pulling a blanket up to his chest and sparing Merlin the temptation of staring at his bare torso. 

“You’re welcome,” Merlin says jokingly, reaching over to put out the candle next to the bed, darkening the room and lengthening the shadows. “Goodnight, Arthur.” 

“Goodnight, Merlin,” Arthur says, in lieu of all the standard master-servant things he used to say years ago.  _ “Your services are no longer required” _ ,  _ “you’re dismissed” _ ,  _ “get out!” _ , and such had been entirely replaced. Now, it was almost always  _ “Goodnight, Merlin.”  _

“Sweet dreams,” the servant says mockingly, walking to the door. 

“Merlin?”

He stops. The fireplace is still lit for heat, even if the light is blocked. Whatever light escapes paints the room in a burnt orange, making Arthur look like a burning flame. “Yes?” 

“Thank you.” 

Merlin can feel his heart skip a beat. “Any time,” he says, unable to stop a smile from making its way onto his face. He turns away before his heartbeat grows loud enough for the whole of Camelot to hear it, hurrying into the hall and shutting the door behind him. 

He closes his eyes, remembering the look on Arthur’s face in his mind. There was something soft in his expression, something utterly indecipherable. 

Merlin recognizes that look. 

He recognizes it from that day that Arthur handed him his mother’s sigil without a moment of hesitation, from the times that he watched Merlin from the corner of his eye during drills, from every time he has tried to crack a joke just to make Merlin smile. 

Yes, Merlin knows that look, and he holds it so close to his heart he wonders if he will suffocate. 

* * *

**| v.** propriety **|**

* * *

Both Arthur and Merlin have terrible problems with being honest. Most of their truths are hidden behind deep layers of snark and sarcasm or inch-deep falsehoods that they never clarify. To those that meet them for the first time, it's rather confusing. 

When Sir Jonathan had first been knighted, Leon had gone to the trouble of explaining the nature of Merlin and Arthur’s relationship to him in detail, lest he be confused by it. It was a source of great amusement for Gwaine and Percival, who constantly brought it up on their more drunken nights to tease the King and his manservant with. “Poor Leon needed to give a  _ lecture  _ on the two of you,” Gwaine laughed on one winter night, swaying back and forth as if he were on a ship. “A  _ lecture _ .” 

“Maybe he will be handing out readings next,” Percival had added, grip on his mead tightening as he laughed. “Perhaps it will be a whole section of training— how to approach and deal with Arthur and Merlin.” 

Arthur had told them to stop before they got stripped of their knighthoods, but the threat had been rather empty as the King couldn’t even stop himself from smiling. Instead, he had covered his face with his tankard as he took another sip, making momentary eye contact with Merlin and shaking his head. 

Thus, people’s infinite amusement with their unconventional relationship was rather commonplace in Camelot. Unfortunately, disapproval of said relationship was not rare either. 

As spring set in that year, Merlin and Arthur went about their days as usual, bickering like an old married couple as they made their way into the training fields. It happened that the third son of Lord Frederick had arrived that day, wearing a haughty expression and clothes that didn’t befit his publicly proclaimed goal of becoming a knight. 

“You can start with the stables,” Arthur says upon seeing him, sporting a sadistic smile that he brings out for moments like these that he enjoys far too much.

“I said I wanted to become a knight, not a stableboy,” the young noble says, sniffing. Merlin notes that it’s rather ironic that his name is Ernest. 

“I said start with the stables,” Arthur repeats, a sharp look in his eye. 

“But—"

“We’re going to be late for training, Arthur,” Merlin groans. “And then that’ll run into lunch and into the trials this afternoon and  _ then  _ I’ll have to finish up all of the things on Gaius’s list before I go to bed and it’ll be midnight—"

Arthur laughs. “God, Merlin, just stop whining. We’ll get your precious schedule back on track, don’t worry about it. The whole of Camelot can bend to your whims.” 

“I  _ am  _ the one holding this kingdom together,” Merlin quips with an impish grin. 

“Keep that up and the court jester will be out of a job.” 

“Oh, please,” Merlin scoffs, rolling his eyes as he hoists the full water skins he is carrying higher as they begin to slip through his fingers. “And give up the  _ absolute privilege  _ given by the  _ Gods themselves  _ to clean up after a royal prat? Never.” 

Arthur looks indignant, but there’s a crinkle about his eye that Merlin recognizes as mirth. “That’s it, you’re going to do the stables with Ernest here,” he says, shoving his servant towards the new knight-wannabe. “And after that, we’re going to find George and put you in some polishing lessons.”

Merlin stumbles but catches himself, trying his best to hold back another delighted laugh but failing. “You couldn’t handle me with brass jokes,” he says as Arthur turns away, a terrible impression of a stoic look on his face. Still chuckling, Merlin turns to a red-faced Ernest. “I’ll drop these waterskins off on the training grounds and then come escort you to the stables, my lord,” he says, tacking on the title as an afterthought before he dips his head and scampers off. 

It’s not until he’s come back and taken Ernest all the way to the stables that he realizes that the noble seems to have been wearing a rather pinched expression this whole time. “Are you alright, my lord?” He nearly forgets to add the title to his question this time, having been accustomed to using them rather haphazardly around Arthur and the other Knights of the Round, who treated him more like a little brother than a servant. “He’s usually hard on the newbies for a day or two, but don’t worry, he warms up pretty fast. I would just—"

“Would you  _ stop  _ yammering?!” Ernest looks up from the meager progress he has made on his side of the stables, something hard and cold in his eyes. “I don’t know what is going on, but speak of nobility with some  _ respect _ !” 

“I—"

“Enough!” Ernest raises a hand like he’s the King himself. “Such obstinate, unruly behavior! It’s really terribly unbecoming of the Royal household.” He shook his head. “The King is truly too kind to keep you around.” 

Merlin bows his head and continues his work and doesn’t say anything to Ernest except if absolutely necessary until they’re done with their task. Something bitter and ugly bundles up in his chest and makes him taste bile in the back of his throat. He isn’t sure what it is— shame, perhaps? Maybe it’s anger at being reprimanded. Or, it’s just a slow realization that Ernest is right and that whatever is between Merlin and Arthur is strange and wrong and different and wouldn’t ( _didn’t_ ) fit in with the lines the ancestors had drawn centuries ago. 

So he just swallows whatever it is that he’s feeling and tries to go about his day. 

He brings Arthur dinner that night, but the whole time, he finds himself avoiding eye contact and dodging taunts with flimsy smiles and mumbled words. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t have anything to say, for he is utterly lost in thought, picking everything apart and meticulously putting it back together.  _ What are we?  _

“ _ Mer _ lin,” Arthur says, cutting through the brunet’s reverie. His name is said in such a way that it makes it obvious that it wasn’t the first time he had said it. “What in the  _ world  _ are you daydreaming about?” 

“I’m not  _ daydreaming _ ,” Merlin insists.

“Yes you are, you absolute  _ girl _ ,” Arthur scoffs, sitting back in his seat like he’s been personally slighted. “You’ve hardly said a word to me since you walked in this room.” 

“Just tired,” the brunet sighs, managing a smile. “That’s all.” 

“From doing  _ what _ ?” Arthur asks jokingly, but the smile disappears from his face when he receives no retort. “Merlin, you tell me what happened or I’m going to find out for myself.” 

“I told you it was nothing—” 

“Stop lying! I’m your King, you know.” Arthur is annoyed, crossing his arms and staring his servant down as if intimidation will get him anywhere. “You haven’t made a single treasonous remark in the past hour. And besides, you’re all mopey. You’re ruining the ambiance.” 

There are many decidedly snarky things Merlin wants to say to that claim, but he holds his tongue. “Sorry.” For once, the apology didn’t sound sarcastic. 

“Merlin,” Arthur’s tone is nearly pleading: it scares Merlin. “What’s going on?” 

“It’s really nothing to concern yourself about,” Merlin sighs. “I was just up all last night working and I got worn out.”

“You seemed plenty energetic this morning.” 

“I used it all up in one go, I guess,” Merlin tries to shrug it off. “You do realize that you’re only making it worse by keeping me here longer?” 

There is a glimmer of suspicion in Arthur’s eye, but he is well aware that nobody can make Merlin talk if he doesn’t want to, so he waves away the excuses and hurriedly dismisses his servant for the night, watching with careful eyes as he leaves. 

The question of Merlin’s sudden change in mood haunts Arthur all night. It’s not strange for Merlin to wander about in the King’s dreams, but instead of lulling him to sleep like usual, this situation makes Arthur anxious enough that he sits awake for hours before he finally passes out from exhaustion.  It’s not until training the next day that Arthur gets an inkling of the truth. “You can sharpen swords with Merlin today,” the blonde tells Ernest, patience running low on account of the minimal sleep he had gotten. 

“When can I begin real training?” the boy asks. 

“When you’re ready,” Arthur replies curtly, turning to Merlin, who has his eyes fixed on the ground. “Merlin?” 

“Yes?” 

Arthur’s eyes flit between Ernest and Merlin for a moment as the events of the yesterday flood his brain. Merlin’s change in demeanor after mucking out the stables with Ernest, the noble boy’s nasty attitude, Merlin’s new quietness—  _ ah.  _ “Ernest, go ahead to the armory. Merlin here will join you after he does something for me.” 

The king detects a twitch in the boy’s cheek as he turns and leaves, which he files away for further consideration. “What do you need me to do?” Merlin asks, completely oblivious. His eyes are wide and oh-so-blue and Arthur can feel something in his heart break at the innocence and purity of the man in front of him. He is not like most of the other brown-nosing nobles and servants in the castle, always trying their best to get Arthur to notice their infuriatingly obsequious gestures to prove themselves worthy of reward. No, Merlin is different. He serves just to serve. And not like many of the people who believe that a royal bloodline is descended straight from the gods themselves— no, Merlin serves not because he believes in some abstract concept or for personal gain, but rather out of something far more personal. 

Arthur never understood the concept of self-worth until he felt he had earned Merlin’s respect, and it is in this moment that he realizes how much he values the man standing in front of him. 

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice is soft.  _ Beautifully soft. _ “Are you alright?” 

Trying his best not to let his emotions show on his face, Arthur swallows heavily. “Are you?” 

Merlin purses his lips. “I already told you, sire, I was just tired—” 

“Yes, I remember your lie,” Arthur says, trying to see through Merlin’s facade.  _ Why does he feel the need to hide things from me?  _ “Now tell me the truth.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“What did Ernest say to you?” 

Merlin’s eyes go wide for the shortest moment before he reigns the surprise in. “Ernest?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me.” 

A long moment passes, but Merlin stubbornly screws his lips shut and refuses to say another word. 

Arthur is the first one to give in, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “Fine,” he sighs. “Have it your way.” 

Merlin watches him warily. “Can I go now?” 

Rolling his eyes, Arthur dismisses him, plans already brewing in the back of his head. Unfortunately, whenever he has a particularly pressing (or maddening) issue on his mind, he tends to take it out on the knights during training. Poor Elyan bears the brunt of it today, gasping for breath as he’s knocked to the ground for the fourth time that day, glaring at Gwaine as he bites back a rather loud laugh at his fellow knight’s expense. 

“You’re taking a beating, Elyan,” Percival calls out, because apparently Gwaine’s lack of self-preservation has rubbed off on him. “Do you think you’ll be able to walk after that?”

“I can carry him around bridal style,” Gwaine snickers, scurrying away before Elyan can leave the King and chase the Irishman down with his sword. 

Arthur watches Elyan get up with a guilty look. “I hope I wasn’t too hard on you,” he says, though he knows he most definitely was. 

“Not at all, sire,” Elyan says, because no matter the circumstances, he is a wonderful knight. 

_ Bless him,  _ Arthur thinks as his sword clashes loudly with Elyan’s a few moments later.  _ Perhaps I should take out my frustrations on Gwaine next time. He definitely deserves it more than Elyan, anyways.  _

These idle thoughts flee his mind as training ends and Arthur returns to his chambers, consumed by the mystery surrounding Ernest and whatever the awful boy had said to his Merlin.  _ What on Earth can get him to act like a kicked puppy?  _ The king wonders, but he can come up with absolutely no possibilities. 

That night, when Merlin comes to his chambers with dinner, Arthur watches him with a hard pointed stare, as if that’s enough to get the legendarily stubborn Merlin to confess the truth. Frustratingly, it doesn’t even elicit a sarcastic comment.  “Are you going to tell me what happened or are you going to make me do this the hard way?” Arthur asks finally, when Merlin refuses to break the silence first. 

“Nothing happened,” Merlin insists firmly. 

_ Who does he think he’s fooling?  _ The blonde kicks his legs up onto the table in a very un-royal manner. “So you’re choosing the hard way, I presume?” 

Merlin purses his lips and stares hard at the pitcher of wine he’s holding for a long moment before he sets it down and turns to look his king in the eye. Arthur can barely contain his smile at that— he hadn’t realized how long it had been since he had gotten such daring eye contact from his servant. Well, in reality, it had only been around a day or so, but to Arthur, it already felt like eternity. 

“So?”

“There’s nothing to be done, Arthur,” Merlin says finally, throwing his hands up in frustration. Arthur realizes he’s also missed the brunet’s voice saying his name. “I’m telling the truth. Nothing really happened. I just got caught up in thinking about something Ernest said.” 

Arthur raises an eyebrow.  _ So I was right.  _ “What did he say?”  _ I’ll throw him out. Him and his whole family.  _

It’s almost as if Merlin can read his mind, for his expression hardens. “The truth. That’s all. He just said the truth.”

“What truth?” Merlin turns to step away but Arthur doesn’t let him.  _ Can’t  _ let him. He reaches out and grabs the brunet’s arm, pulling him back. “ _ What  _ truth, Merlin?”

There’s something churning in Merlin’s eyes, some warring forces that Arthur can’t even begin to understand. “ _ This  _ truth,” he mumbled finally, gesturing to Arthur’s desperate grip. “ _ This _ .” 

Arthur lets go as if burned, looking up at Merlin from where he’s sitting and wondering where to go from here. “Oh.”

“He said I’m a terrible servant,” Merlin says. “And he’s right. But he said that whatever  _ we  _ are, it’s just not normal.” 

“Who is he to say anything about us?” Arthur asks, fingers curling around his glass. 

“It’s not like he’s wrong,” Merlin says quietly, and the words linger in the air like storm clouds, making the room feel dark and uncertain. 

The two of them are quiet for a while. Arthur barely eats and Merlin doesn’t comment about it, just helping him get ready for bed. 

“Don’t… do anything to Ernest,” Merlin says, voice unsure as he folds a shirt. “Please.”

Arthur looks at him sharply. “Why not?”

“He’s been raised like that,” Merlin says with a shrug. “It’s not his fault. It takes everyone a while to get used to… us.”

“Why?” Arthur says, aggressively moving a pillow. “What’s wrong with us?” 

Merlin holds his tongue. “He’s just a kid,” he says finally. “Just… don’t hold it against him.” 

Arthur gives him a begrudging look that Merlin knows means that he’s won. He smiles and gathers the dishes and leftover food, balancing them in a precarious stack as he sniffs out candles all around the room. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

There’s a pause. “You can have any of that food, by the way,” comes the muffled response from the bed. 

“You know I was going to sneak it anyways,” Merlin says in a strange fit of bravery. 

“But my giving permission makes the difference between you being a law-abiding citizen and a thief from the king himself,” Arthur says, his laugh disembodied in the relative darkness. 

“Well, thanks for saving me from a lifetime of crime, then,” the servant chuckles, opening the door. “I’ll be going.”

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

Night has already fallen like a blanket over Camelot, and by the time Merlin makes it through his nightly errands and manages to sit down to eat, he passes out from sheer exhaustion and ends up sleeping with his face on the table.  Fortunately, the sun is rather harsh in the main room of the physician’s chambers, forcing him awake at his usual dawn to scurry to the king’s chambers. He barely manages to keep up with his list of duties all morning, stumbling over his words and his feet even as he finds himself making his way down to the training grounds with Arthur as usual.  As Ernest comes up to the pair yet again, Merlin worries for a split second that Arthur has gone ahead and decided on confronting him (or worse), but his fears and quickly dismissed as Arthur looks over the boy with a fake (but still radiant) smile. “You’ll be working on polishing today, Ernest,” the blonde says. 

“I’m not ready yet, sire?” Ernest seems earnest for the first time.  _ Perhaps the labor is doing wonders for his humility.  _

“You’re ready when I say you are.”

“Of course, sire,” Ernest says, and the sharp tone is back.  _ I hoped too soon. No humility just yet.  _

“Well, our best polisher  _ George  _ will be helping you with that, Ernest. In the meantime, Merlin, we’re going to get to target practice.” Arthur looks over, eyes sweeping over his servant’s face. 

“I better not be the target,” Merlin quips in turn. 

“If you keep talking like that, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Arthur laughs, shoving him playfully and taking long strides to the training fields. 

Merlin turns and looks behind him as he hurries to keep up, deciding that losing at the little exchange is  _ very  _ worth the rather incredulous expression on Ernest’s face. 

  
  


* * *

**| vi.** sleep (dollophead) **|**

* * *

The more time Arthur spends as king, the deeper the worry lines in his face become. Sometimes, he goes days without even a fraction of a smile or an inkling of mirth in his eyes, staring deep into the recesses of space that nobody else can see as he tries to somehow singlehandedly solve every kingdom that has ever plagued Camelot's soul. 

It is hard for a good man to be king. 

Some days, it hurts Merlin to watch him. One night, after the conclusion of a particularly gruesome trial, Merlin watches as Arthur sits at the end of his bed, unmoving as a statue. “Did I make the right choice?” he asks. 

Merlin swallows. “You made the only choice,” he says, tone carefully even. 

“Doesn’t make it the right one,” Arthur mumbles, dropping his head into his hands. 

There’s a long moment of silence. Merlin pauses. Even though Arthur pretends otherwise, Merlin is aware how much his opinion matters to him. “You are not responsible for other people’s choices, Arthur,” he says finally. “You don’t have to feel guilty for carrying out your responsibilities. You made the only choice you could. The right choice for Camelot.” 

Arthur lets his hands fall away from his face before looking up, icy blue eyes pinning Merlin to the spot. “Do you really think so?” He sounds almost like a child, asking--  _ pleading  _ \-- for a  _ ‘yes’ _ . 

Who is Merlin to not indulge him? “I wouldn’t lie to you, Arthur,” he says, pretending that he doesn’t lie to him each and every day. “I mean it.” 

Arthur looks away, releasing his servant from his gaze. “Sometimes I… worry that I’ve made the wrong judgement. That I’ve made a terrible mistake.” 

“And it’ll haunt you at night because you think of every other way that it could’ve gone,” Merlin mumbles, eyes drifting to the floor. The light from the fire catches the wood underfoot, casting shadows over the scratches and crevices. “And you’ll wonder, _“What if I had done better?”_. The longer you think about it, the more possibilities come to mind.” Merlin takes a long breath. Arthur doesn’t say a word, but the brunet is already too lost in his own head to look up at him. “It’s always  _ what if _ ,  _ what if _ ,  _ what if _ ...” 

“You never cease to surprise me, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is quiet, awed, almost reverent. Merlin risks a glance up to see the blonde’s eyes are wide, looking at Merlin as if he’s never seen him before. 

The expression is endearing. Merlin smiles before he looks away again, heart jumping to his throat. “What I mean is… you can dwell on it all you like. You can let the past haunt you, follow you around, make you feel guilty and unworthy until the moment you die. But it won’t change anything, will it?” 

Arthur swallows almost audibly. “I suppose not.” 

Using some untapped reservoir of bravery (that he wasn’t aware he still had left), Merlin moves from where he has been against the far wall of the room. Every step simultaneously feels like it’s weighed down by stone and that he is floating through a dream. It doesn’t make any sense, but nothing makes sense in Merlin’s head right now. He’s so lost in a reverie of fighting with himself that he barely notices that he’s moved until he finds himself standing in front of Arthur. 

The blonde looks up at him, eyes searching and cautious. “Merlin?” If the distance between them was even an inch wider, he might’ve not heard the whisper. 

All of the new bravado flees Merlin at once and he’s standing there, jaw working in the air as he bashes himself for getting into this situation. “I just…” Arthur watches him silently. “Stop nitpicking your past self. It doesn’t help anyone. Just… you don’t have to forget, but you have to forgive yourself. And make sure you do better next time.” 

Merlin finally looks up, and upon seeing Arthur’s face so close to his own, he almost reaches out. 

But of course, he stops himself at the last moment. 

“Anyways,” Merlin says suddenly, stepping back and coughs awkwardly. “You’re tired, aren’t you? I should go so you can sleep.” He snuffs out the candle on the bedside table, taking another step back. His hands are trembling, all the nerves in his body tingling and on end. He can’t stop himself from shaking, can’t stop himself from imagining things that he’d promised himself to banish from his thoughts. 

Arthur is still conspicuously silent. 

“Is there anything else you need?” It’s not a question Merlin usually asks, but their dialogue feels unfinished, like it’s still hovering in the air, waiting for its end. 

Silence. 

“Arthur?”

“Do you have to go?” 

Merlin freezes. Arthur doesn’t look at him, instead staring fixedly at some point on the wall.  _ What? What did…? Did he…?  _ He can’t think straight once again-- it seems to becoming a habit. “I…” 

“You don’t have to,” Arthur adds hastily, seemingly embarrassed if the flush in his face is anything to go by. “I just… I don’t think I can sleep tonight. You can sleep if you want, in the antechamber. Or you can just sit here. I don’t know.” 

“Arthur, I--” 

“You can have the day off tomorrow,” Arthur continues, rubbing the back of his neck, just to have something to do with his hands. “You don’t have to stay, I won’t hold it against you.” Another long pause. “I just don’t know if I can be alone right now.” 

Merlin can’t help the fond smile that doubtlessly finds its way onto his face. “Of course I’ll stay, dollophead.” 

And so he does. 

The sky goes pitch black outside the window, the stars becoming clear pinpricks of light. Neither of them talks too much. Merlin spends a while tending to the fire and then stalking about the room doing little things to keep himself busy. He catches Arthur watching him, but he looks away so fast Merlin could almost hear the whistle of the air.  As midnight falls, Arthur migrates to the fire, settling into the chair in front of it and staring unblinkingly as the flames leap and dance and crackle and pop. This time, it’s Merlin’s turn to watch him, admiring the reds and oranges and yellows as they reflect off of Arthur’s golden hair and make his eyes look magic-gold. 

_ Stop looking,  _ Merlin tells himself, but it’s all in vain. It’s painful to look away. But he tries, _oh_ he tries. He makes his way over to the window, trying to take in the beauty of the moon, but it’s fruitless. What is the moon when compared to the sun itself? 

He finally gives in and walks to the other side of the royal chambers, the fire warm enough that it wipes away any remaining chill in Merlin’s body. Arthur’s eyes are closed, but he’s radiant even when he’s asleep. Merlin smiles again despite himself, swallowing the affection that bubbles up in his heart at the sight. Instead, he distracts himself again, pulling a blanket from the bed and settling around Arthur in the chair.  As he does so, he pauses. Even sleeping, there’s a worry line between Arthur’s brows that never seems to fade. 

It feels like Merlin is alone. Perhaps that’s why his earlier inhibitions flee and he reaches out, his thumb gently stroking the furrow in Arthur’s brow smooth. The blonde’s eyelids flutter, making Merlin pull away as if burnt. 

But he doesn’t wake. 

Merlin’s galloping heartbeat slows. He stands deadly still, barely a foot away, watching. He isn’t sure how much time passes by the time his legs get tired and he decides to turn in. Arthur shifts unconsciously, hair falling over his eyes as he presses his cheek into the blanket. Merlin can’t help but smile. 

“ _ Dollophead, _ ” he whispers into the dark room. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed that! kudos are appreciated, all comments are replied to and motivate me to write more :) see you guys around for the next chapter!!


	3. vii./viii./ix.— forbidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But how can you expect me not to eat,  
>  When the forbidden fruit tastes so sweet?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! it's been forever since i've posted a chapter of this (life got in the way,,,, i'm so sorry!!!) but i would like to thank **whether_or_no** for their comment on the last chapter that gave me motivation to get back into writing this!!
> 
> before yall go on to the ~chapter~ i would like to give a **mild trigger warning** as a character expresses a vague homophobic sentiment in this chapter. no slurs are used, but the attitude is homophobic. if this bothers you but you would still like to read the chapter, please leave a comment and i can find a way to link you a version without these lines in it! it won't be too much extra work for me at all so please don't be shy!!!
> 
> ALSO, please note the new tags and the rating change! the descriptions are pretty vague and definitely skimmable, just in case you were worried about that! 
> 
> all that being said, with no further ado, welcome to chapter three :)

* * *

**| vii.** acquiescence **|**

* * *

“The council wants me to get married,” Arthur blurts out one day as Merlin serves him his lunch. 

Unlike usual, Merlin does not knock over his wine glass or send a chicken wing spiraling to the floor. Instead, he doesn’t even breathe, looking at the blonde with deadly stillness. “...what?” 

Arthur clears his throat and looks away, watching his own fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “Camelot needs heirs,” he says. “And they are urging me to find a wife soon.” 

_ Wife.  _ The word feels like a personal attack. Merlin straightens up, moves away, and forces a neutral expression onto his face. “So?”

An incredulous look flashes across Arthur’s face, as if he’s thinking:  _ What do you mean, “so”?  _ He sits up straighter in his chair. “What do you think?” 

For a moment, there’s silence. Merlin turns away, stacking dishes and pretending like he isn’t burning up inside. “I’m surprised it took them this long,” he says finally, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “A lot of them were pretty set on you getting married even when your father was around.” 

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Arthur says quietly. Merlin inhales and fights the urge to hit something. 

“Do you…” the brunet hesitates. “Did you have someone in mind?” 

“Maybe,” Arthur says, getting up. The legs of his chair scrape on the floor, making Merlin jump. “I don’t know.” 

Merlin finally musters up the courage to turn around. “It’s Gwen, isn’t it?” 

Arthur is over by his desk now, fiddling idly with the papers strewn about his desk though the distracted look in his eyes speaks volumes. “She’s… intelligent,” he says slowly. “She has the wisdom of a true leader.” 

_ So he’s only talking about her qualifications,  _ Merlin thinks with a swell of hope and satisfaction. “She would be a good choice.” And he means it-- Gwen was a dear friend and he could not imagine someone more deserving of the position of queen.  _ Or of Arthur.  _

“You still haven’t told me what you think.” 

Merlin looks up to see Arthur looking at him intently. He’s on the other side of the room, but his pointed gaze locks the brunet into place and makes him feel like they’re only inches apart. “Why does it matter?” he asks softly. 

A dry laugh escapes from Arthur’s throat. “Why does it matter,” he repeats incredulously, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t it?” 

Everything-- from tradition to logic to the rules of friendship-- decrees that Merlin, a _peasant sorcerer manservant from in Ealdor_ , doesn’t have a valid opinion considering _Once and Future King of Camelot Arthur Pendragon_ ’s marriage. No matter how close of friends they are, it shouldn’t matter what Merlin thinks. 

But it does. 

Arthur’s staring at him again, a plea in his eyes. But for once, Merlin can’t read him. He doesn’t know what Arthur wants from him at all.  “Do you think I… that I should…?” The blonde doesn’t finish the sentence. He just leaves it lingering in the air, hovering around the two of them like smoke. 

It sounds like he’s asking for permission. The longer Merlin looks at him, the more he feels like that’s actually the case.  _ Why would he care what I have to say?  _ He thinks, but even as he does so, he knows the answer somewhere deep in his heart but he still steadfastly refuses to think it.  “Arthur,” Merlin whispers, taking in a shaky breath. The blonde walks around the table, each step slow and measured. He looks like he’s holding his breath, hanging from a cliff, balancing on a tightrope. “I…” 

Merlin eyes water as they meet Arthur’s. Blue clashing with blue, unspoken truths passing between them. Even as they gravitate towards each other, they stay a foot apart, as if afraid of being seen even when they’re completely alone. 

They never acknowledge these moments, even when they feel so real and all encompassing. They both pretend they’re just passing fancies, moments of brotherhood, when they know it’s much more than that. Brotherhood doesn’t ( _ shouldn’t _ ) have lingering touches and glances, bitten lips and watery wanting eyes, or wet dreams in the middle of the night. 

This isn’t brotherhood, and both of them are well aware. _Too aware._

But it doesn’t matter. It can’t. There are great forces keeping them apart. No matter how many secret looks and soft smiles they throw at each other when nobody's looking, there’s a wall between them.  So Merlin takes a deep breath, burying the grief and love deep in his chest, as if it’s not reflected on Arthur’s face too. He closes his eyes and pretends that he’s the only depraved one that feels these gripping and disarming and overwhelming emotions that will surely lead to his own doom one day. He pretends so that he doesn’t feel guilty for the resigned disappointment playing across Arthur’s features. 

“Merlin?” the blonde ventures. Merlin recognizes the plea now--  _ What do you think, Merlin? What do you think of this golden cage we’ve constructed for ourselves? Do you think I should--  _ **_we_ ** _ should keep performing tricks for the masses? Or should we break free?  _

At least, that’s what Merlin hopes Arthur means. Perhaps his imagination has gotten the better of him. Who knows at this point? In the back of his mind, there’s a voice screaming  _ “No! Say no! He shouldn’t marry Gwen, he shouldn’t!”  _ But Merlin can’t bring himself to be that selfish.  Arthur is the sun-- he’s pure, he’s beautiful, he’s everything that is good and strong and honest and he burns brighter than anything else in the world. Merlin can’t do it-- he can’t taint Arthur with his darkness, he can’t ruin Arthur like this. 

So he just smiles sadly, doing his best not to let the tears filling his eyes fall. “Gwen will be delighted,” he forces out. “I’m sure she’ll make a great queen.” 

For days afterwards, the way Arthur’s face falls at those words is branded on the backs of Merlin’s eyelids, haunting his every waking moment. 

He can’t fight the bitterness. There had been some small bit of hope that encouraging Arthur to get married would squash the twisted love he felt for the man, but it hadn’t. If anything, denial had stoked the flames, making Merlin feel like he was burning from the inside out.  _ Perhaps this is worse than being burnt at the stake.  _

The night before Arthur is set to finally propose, Merlin leaves the royal bedchambers early. Arthur and Merlin have barely talked since that night-- it’s almost like they don’t trust themselves to discuss the issue any further. So instead, they skirt around each other, toeing an invisible line. 

Merlin sits at the foot of his bed, the cold seeping in through the floorboards and chilling him to the bone. He suddenly likes the numbness. Gaius is already asleep, so the whole world seems silent, like it's holding its breath. 

His breath fogs up the air in the absence of a fire. He makes no move to start one. Tilting his head back against the footboard, Merlin closes his eyes and fantasizes. He imagines the stars above the grassy clearing that him and Arthur had laid in together. He imagines the wide smiles and secrets and fears discussed under the guise of camaraderie. He imagines Arthur’s eyes, beautiful as the sky itself. 

Against his better judgement, a spell falls from his mouth, a breathless whisper. From the tips of his fingers, streams of gold converge, swirling together to create a hovering mirror. Merlin’s own blue eyes stare accusingly back at him.  _ Depraved,  _ they say.  _ Sinner.  _

Merlin pointedly avoids his own gaze. Instead, he swallows heavily, letting his fingers drift across the reflection, watching his features soften. His jaw is smoothed out, any remnants of stubble disappear, his nose is a little straighter, brows less defined, lashes longer, cheeks fuller, hair longer. He stops and stares at the materialized image, hands shaking and a sob caught in his throat. 

In the dead of night, with nobody around to comfort him, Merlin hates himself for not being a woman. 

* * *

**| viii.** knell **|**

* * *

Everyone is in sickeningly high spirits when spring comes around. After all, their beloved King Arthur has finally stopped claiming that Camelot is his one and only love-- now he has his beautiful fiancee, Guinevere, to take that esteemed position. 

Merlin continues about his duties, trying to pretend like nothing has changed. But it’s basically impossible-- it’s all the servants ever gossip about, and even Gaius won’t let the topic go. The physician’s time is consumed by making dozens of draughts for hangovers; a stock that will most definitely be needed the morning after the wedding for all the guests and merry-making citizens. Even Arthur’s chambers have changed-- maids have taken over half of it, outfitting a new armoire for the queen-to-be, making the room almost unrecognizable. 

Still, Merlin steadfastly pretends none of it exists. 

One night, barely a day before the dreaded wedding, Merlin spends an excessive amount of time scrubbing a non-existent stain out of one of Arthur’s shirts when one of the kitchen maids decides to bother him, eyes clearly fixed on him from the moment she walks into the room. “You’re still washing?” 

Merlin looks up. “Clearly,” he says, voice clipped. He feels guilty, but he’s honestly in no mood for pleasantries. 

“You really overwork yourself, Merlin,” she says, voice low. The warlock straightens, wringing the shirt in his hands as he looks over his shoulder. It’s dark, only the candles on the walls flickering intermittently and casting shadows on the rest of the empty washing room. 

“You know my name?” he asks, in lieu of having nothing else to say. 

“Everybody knows your name,” the girl says, as she leans forward, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. The action exposes a flash of her cleavage and Merlin quickly averts his eyes. 

He wracks his brain for the girl’s name, but she’d just joined the kitchens in the past month or so, and he hadn’t really had a chance to socialize with all the preparations and the extended sulking he had been engaging in. “That’s an exaggeration,” Merlin laughs awkwardly, trying to shrug off the attention. “I’ve just been here a long time. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” 

“Helen,” she says, smiling. “Are you done yet?” 

“No?” Merlin turns to look at her to see that she’s tugged her dress down more, making the blood rise to his cheeks. “Are you-- what are you-- I’m--” 

“You’re too adorable,” Helen laughs, walking closer. Merlin takes a step backward and finds himself up against the wall, the blonde girl’s arms wound around his neck. “Aw, you’re turning all red. You don’t need to be so bashful.” 

“I’m--” Merlin nearly chokes, hands hovering awkwardly in the air until Helen takes them and places them on her waist. He thinks about pushing her away for a moment, but something stops him. If he squints, the color of her hair could almost be the color of Arthur’s, though decidedly less golden and looking far more like straw. Her eyes are a grey-ish shade of blue, but perhaps they would do…

Helen leans in to kiss him and Merlin responds blindly, fingers tangled loosely into the folds of the girl’s dress. His eyes are closed and he can imagine it all in vivid detail: the dress is gone, replaced with Arthur’s favorite red tunic, the hair tickling his cheek is the King’s drenched with sweat after a particularly trying training session with the knights, and the body glued to his is all angles and lines instead of soft curves. 

Moaning, Helen reaches up to pull Merlin’s neckerchief free, dropping it on the floor as her cold fingers drift up to his collarbones, tracing them before following the same path with her lips. Each touch leaves a trail of numb skin in the worst way.  Merlin refuses to look at her, instead clutching onto her waist, the only part of her that he’s willing to touch. Helen doesn’t seem to mind at first, raking her fingers through his hair and pushing a hand under his shirt despite the way he tenses up and avoids her gaze. He attempts to distract her from her explorations, mildly kissing her and struggling to be interested. 

“Merlin,” Helen whispers, voice pitched and breathy as she undoes the laces to her dress. “Merlin.” He decides he hates the way his name sounds in her voice. He averts his eyes from her bare breasts, suddenly finding the candlelit shadows on the ceiling far more interesting. “So shy,” Helen hums, grabbing the brunet’s face in both of her hands and pulling him forward. “We have to be quick. Before the chambermaids come by.”

Merlin opens his mouth to say something, but he cannot think of a single word he would like to say. His mind is utterly blank and he’s filled with the feeling that everything happening is utterly wrong. Helen gives him a salacious smile and moves an unwelcome, cold hand into his trousers. He jumps at the sensation, gripping at her arm and trying to imagine himself anywhere but here.  “You’re still not ready?” Helen asks, sounding mildly surprised. Merlin assumes that she’s never had trouble with a partner considering her assets. 

“S-sorry,” he stammers, getting out his first worst since the “encounter” had begun. 

Helen gives him a pointed look, fingers twisting and prodding but ultimately making no difference. Merlin is utterly unaroused. Utterly uninterested. After a minute of trying, Helen steps back, nose wrinkled with disgust. “So it’s true then,” she says, each word coming out like a spit. “You’re really a wretch like they say.” She pulls her dress back up, tying it haphazardly around her shoulders and picking up her discarded shawl from the floor. “The king’s a wretch, and so is his whore.” 

Merlin stares at her, unmoving before finally speaking. “Don’t talk about Arthur like that!” 

“Arthur, Arthur,  _ Arthur _ ,” Helen says, eyes narrowed. “You’re disgusting.” 

Fear and panic rise in Merlin’s chest as he surges forward, grabbing her arm. “Wait,” he says, even if he wants her to go away and leave him alone more than anything. “I was just-- I was just nervous. We can try again, it’s not what you think at all--”

Helen doesn’t want to hear it. She knows the truth and he knows the truth. She shoves him back and Merlin stumbles limply, arm banging viciously against a hard corner of the washbasin, the shooting pain dull next to the sinking feeling in his chest as Helen disappears into the dark hall, leaving him alone. 

Merlin bends down and picks down his neckerchief and slowly ties it around where his arm has started to bleed around the blunt cut, staining his blue tunic. He stands there in silence for a moment, the exhaustion in his bones weighing him down, making him feel like he was freezing in place. 

He counts to ten. 

Then he goes back to washing Arthur’s clothes with meticulous care, ignoring the cut on his arm as it bleeds through both layers of cloth covering it. The warmth of the blood is strangely comforting, especially when juxtaposed with the cold suds of the washbasin. He lets his arm throb because it distracts him from the hollow echoing in his heart.

But he can’t bring himself to cry. He can’t cry and make it all real. 

So he washes and washes and washes, scrubbing one tunic to nearly shreds and having to use his magic to repair it. He washes until his fingers become pruny and his nail-beds bleed and his palms sting. He washes until the day catches up on him and he falls into a fitful sleep at the wee hours of morning right there on the floor, still elbow-deep in soap and fabric. He wakes up again, only to wash until the morning sun filters in through the covered windows, bringing with it the cheerful ringing of the church bells, announcing to all far and wide that today is the day. 

The day of the royal wedding. 

Merlin wants to pretend he doesn’t hear it, but the bells echo through his head mockingly, sounding more like funeral bells than anything. 

As the last strike of the bell rings, Merlin gets up and gathers Arthur’s clothes, returning to Gaius’s chambers. He ignores the physician as he enquires after Merlin’s injured arm and bleeding hands. 

Instead, he slips into his own room and pulls out his purple tunic, acting like it means something. 

* * *

**| ix.** precipice **|**

* * *

“Thank you, Merlin,” Gwen says, smiling sweetly as she always does. Merlin smiles back, but it feels hollow. 

He can’t find it in himself to hate Gwen. Not when she’s beautiful, kind, gracious, and a wonderful queen. All that, and she’s also one of his best friends. No, he can’t resent her. 

But he wants to. 

Merlin takes plates from the (now bigger) table and walks past the bed, pretending that it isn’t where Arthur and Gwen likely sleep in an embrace every night. He acts like he doesn’t see the flowers Arthur has brought in by the servants for Gwen. He plays dumb whenever he is dismissed from dinner duties or bath duties because “the queen is handling them”, instead coincidentally beginning to accept Gwaine’s constant invitations to the tavern. 

“Guinevere made a good recommendation today, did she not?” Arthur asks him as he undresses one fall night. 

“Of course,” Merlin says, unlacing his shirt and avoiding his gaze. “It’s Gwen, after all. It is to be expected of her.” A bit of pride wells up in his chest at that. Gwen is truly the best of them all. 

“I’m glad to have her counsel,” Arthur muses, brushing his hair back with one hand. Merlin barely catches the movement, but savors it in his mind nonetheless. 

“She is invaluable,” Merlin agrees dryly, sounding more and more like George with every passing moment. For once, Arthur is too exhausted to complain about it. He just nods in response and lets Merlin continue with his work. 

The brunet glances at Gwen’s side of the room through a corner of his eye, a tumultuous mixture of emotions swirling together in his chest all at once. Gwen loves Arthur. Of that much, Merlin is absolutely sure.  Sometimes, however, Merlin catches her looking at a trinket that had been worn on a necklace and tucked under her collar, or staring out a window at the roads leading up to the castle as if expecting someone. For all that Gwen loved Arthur, she had always loved Lancelot more. 

Merlin remembers when Arthur had told him her response to his proposal. The confession of a love long lost, the muted apology and rejection, the averted eyes and pursed lips.  But Arthur had managed to win her heart anyways. Even when she warned him that he’ll never hold Lancelot’s place as her other half, Arthur agreed and accepts whatever love she can give. There’s no passion between her and Arthur-- no ache. They are partners, they are friends, they are the King and Queen of Camelot, and they bring prosperity to the realm.  Lovers, however, is something they struggle to be. And for some selfish reason, that gives Merlin peace. 

He finishes folding Arthur’s day clothes and hangs them up, glancing behind him at the king as he climbs into bed. “Where’s Gwen?” he asks idly, moving to tend to the fireplace.

“She’s with some ladies of hers,” Arthur says wryly. “You know how they are. They tend to become just as rowdy as the knights given a few glasses of wine.”

Merlin nods, shuddering at the memories of loud noblewomen gossiping loudly and preying on the manservants. “I wish her the best of luck with that,” he says. He finishes tending to the fire and stands there, feeling its warmth, without making a move to leave. There is nothing left for him to do, no task to stall with or mind-numbing chore to fiddle with to make an excuse to stay longer. 

But he wants to. 

It has been so long since Arthur and Merlin were alone in his chambers like this. Gwen is always there, muttering her thoughts out loud like she often does, or walking around and helping Merlin with his work. She’s a delight to have around, but she cannot match the way her absence seems to create a palpable electric current in the room.  Arthur, who had already been climbing onto the bed, stops and gets up again. He glances at Merlin furtively before taking long strides towards the big window, throwing it open. Cold air floods in like a front, making Merlin sputter indignantly. “I worked so hard on that fire!” he protests, even as he ramps up the fire’s heat with his magic. “You really are spoiled.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says. He’s facing away, but Merlin knows the exact shape of the fond smile he wears as he says those words. 

“We all know you’re strong and manly, Arthur, but even you’re not immune to a sudden bout of a cold that can take you off your feet,” Merlin says, walking closer to the blonde. “We don’t want to test our king’s health, now do we?” 

Arthur turns to look at him. 

Merlin is close enough that he can see the blue moonlight playing on half of his face, offset by the orange warmth of the fireplace highlighting the harsh tilt of his cheekbones on his other cheek. Merlin is utterly mesmerized by the way Arthur’s gaze flickers up to meet his own, eyes soft and searching. 

The warlock swallows and looks away. “What are you at the window for?”, he says in lieu of holding the look. 

In the place of the typical  _ “questioning your king, are you?”  _ or something akin to that, Arthur just turns back to the open air, expression wistful. “Just looking,” he says simply, as if that explains anything at all.

Merlin scoffs at that. “Looking,” he repeats incredulously, closing the distance between them to stand by his king’s side. “Pray tell, what’s worth coming down with a fever?” 

Arthur gestures with a subtle tilt of his head up to where his gaze is aimed. In the cloudless sky, the stars sparkle brilliantly, looking like diamonds on a sheet of black velvet. Merlin appreciates stars as much as the next person, but it’s truly  _ freezing  _ outside, so he reaches to close the window, only to be stopped by Arthur’s hand on his wrist. 

Immediately, Merlin’s blood freezes in place, making him naught but a statue, barely even breathing. Every nerve is attuned to the warmth of skin on his.  _ Arthur’s  _ skin on his.  “Let me enjoy them for a bit,” the blonde says, and Merlin can’t find it in himself to deny him. Not that he could  _ ever  _ deny Arthur anything. 

“I don’t know when you became such a fan,” Merlin says instead, sagging against the wall as he follows Arthur’s gaze. “I thought you were into much more worldly things.” 

“They’re just so constant yet so volatile,” Arthur says, cocking his head. “Their impermanence is comforting. No matter what changes, they’ll move as they always do. You can trust the stars.” 

Even Merlin doesn’t have a snarky remark for that. “When I was young,” he began instead, “I was so afraid of the night that I would refuse to let my mother put the candles out. I would be terrified to fall asleep.” Arthur looks at him curiously, but Merlin doesn’t meet his gaze, still looking resolutely over the blanket of stars overhead. “She would point out the archer’s constellation to me, telling me that he was watching over all of us at night. That we would be safe, no matter what.” 

Arthur’s eyes trace the archer’s constellation with something unreadable in his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I find it hard to believe that was enough to convince you.” 

“It wasn’t,” Merlin laughs, eyes crinkling at the memory. “I stayed up once, peaking out of the windows to try to catch the archer move.”

“Well, did he?” 

Merlin snorts. “I grew out of it when I realized how wonderful a full night of sleep felt,” he says. “Though every time it’s night, my eyes still find him first. Habit, I suppose.” 

“It’s not a bad memory to remember every now and then,” Arthur says, tone bordering on a sigh. Merlin chooses not to mention the fact that he rarely thinks of the archer anymore when he looks at the sky. Instead, he’s always thinking of the night that he and Arthur had lain in the dewy midnight grass, staring up at heavens together. The night that haunts his every dream. “Morgana read of Vega and Altair once,” Arthur continues after a moment, breaking Merlin out of his reverie. Morgana’s name comes out after an extended moment of hesitation. “She was quite enamored by the idea of star-crossed lovers. She would make a point of pointing out the Summer Triangle every time she could.” There’s a wistful smile on his face. “Until Father made her stop coming on our outings, anyways. It wasn’t fit for a King’s Ward to wander around in the woods, unfortunately.” 

Merlin’s eyes fell to the ocean of woods beyond Camelot’s walls. Morgana could be out there, anywhere, in the shadows of some nighttime forest, right as they were speaking. The thought is unsettling, but he can’t bring himself to dwell on it for more than a moment. Instead, he turns his attention back to Arthur to find him looking back at him. 

“What?” Merlin asks, sounding strangely defensive. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it was rude to stare?” 

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even aware I’m the king of Camelot,” Arthur responds, but his words hold no bite. 

“Well, we can’t afford  _ your majesty  _ being bedridden, so I think it’s about time to turn in,” Merlin quips in turn, reaching to pull the window shut before he’s stopped once more. 

“Just a moment,” Arthur says, eyes leaving the stars and instead finding Merlin’s eyes as their hands touch. There’s a long moment of silence. “Just a little longer.” 

Merlin’s gaze flickers down to Arthur’s calloused fingers laid on top of his scarred ones, a gentle, firm touch.  _ Just a little longer,  _ Arthur’s eyes plead. For some reason, Merlin feels as though Arthur isn’t pleading for more time with the stars. 

He looks up again, nearly losing his balance when he realizes how close they are. There are mere inches between the two of them and Merlin swears on all that is holy that he can hear his own heartbeat echoing throughout the room. “Arthur,” he whispers, tone coming out like a question. 

Arthur doesn’t respond, instead silently searching Merlin’s face. As if there is a sign there, waiting to be read.

Merlin watches the light of the fireplace flicker against Arthur’s skin, breath caught in his throat. It was these-- these  _ moments _ that burrowed under his skin and tormented his every waking moment. Merlin’s eyes trace Arthur’s neck back up to his eyes, blue meeting blue. These are the moments that makes Merlin believe that it’s possible to cross this bridge between them. That they  _ will  _ cross this bridge between them. 

The light reflects off of Arthur’s chapped lips, eyes glistening in the dim light. It’s an absolutely beautiful image that Merlin is certain will haunt him til the day he dies. 

“Merlin?” Arthur says, breath clouding in the cold air flooding in from the outside. 

“I…” Merlin swallows heavily. He can’t find it in himself to look Arthur in the eye again. His gaze drifts to the floor, his heartbeat thundering dangerously in his chest. “I should go, Arthur.” 

Arthur is silent. 

Merlin snuffs out the big candle near Arthur’s bed, walking away without even so much as a glance at Arthur’s face. “Goodnight, Arthur.” 

Again, Arthur doesn’t respond. 

Heart still in his throat, Merlin leaves, closing the door behind him without even acknowledging the way Arthur watches him go, as if waiting for him to hesitate. Waiting for Merlin to stop this game. Waiting for Merlin to stay. 

_ It’s all in my head _ , Merlin tells himself, walking towards Gaius’s chambers as fast as his feet can take him.  _ I think too much,  _ he chants to himself as he sneaks past the snoring physician into his own chambers, which are still dark and cold in his absence.  _ I’m projecting my fantasies,  _ he decides, even as he throws his pillows and blanket off of his bed in a barely-repressed rage.  _ It’s nothing _ , he thinks again as his fingers shred the neckerchief draped on a hook on the wall, hands sparking with golden tendrils of his magic.  _ There’s something wrong with me _ , he concludes as he sinks to the floor beside the bed, curled up with his head on his knees, too filled with crushing sadness and frustration to fall asleep. 

Merlin wonders how Arthur is doing despite it all. The blonde had been so quiet as Merlin had left the room. A headache forms at the warlock’s temples as he sinks further down onto the floor.  _ Arthur is doing fine,  _ he tells himself, unaware that Arthur is sitting awake on his bed in silence, window still open and blowing freezing air in until Gwen finally shows up to close it nearly an hour later.  _ I made all this up in my own head. An overactive imagination, that’s what’s happening here.  _

  
_ That’s all _ , Merlin muses, wiping a tear before it can make its way down his cheek.  _ That’s all there is to it.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, i hope you enjoyed!! 
> 
> for anyone curious, "the archer" is a reference to Orion (it had many names across the history of the world, most revolving around a hunter or archer, so i chose to have merlin's mother call it the archer)
> 
> vega and altair are stars in the "summer triangle" constellation. they are star-crossed lovers doomed never to meet as smaller stars create an unbridgeable gap between them.... i thought that this was fitting for this fic lol
> 
> i'm no expert on stars though, so if there's any discrepancies please let me know! also make sure to let me know of any typos, i have no beta and i write exclusively at 1am so chances are there are a lot of issues lolol
> 
> ANYWAYS _PLEASE_ (pretty please) leave me some comments with constructive criticism because i've never written this style of fic before and i would really value from feedback and thoughts from you guys!! excited to see you around for the next chapter :D
> 
> thanks for reading <3


End file.
